


A Disgrace to the Name of Wizard

by amica_longus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Angst, Azkaban, Canon Universe, Death Eaters, Death Threats, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Lucius Malfoy Slow Burn, Lucius Malfoy Smut, Lucius Slow Burn, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Muggle-born, Redemption, Sad Lucius Malfoy, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slytherin, Smut, Tragic Lucius Malfoy, Trials, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-15 20:40:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15421158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amica_longus/pseuds/amica_longus
Summary: Is every man worth saving?





	1. The Press Reaction

**Author's Note:**

> I have snatched the entire universe here described from the bountiful hands of JK R, and just adulterated it a bit for my own ambiguous purposes. Trying to make this seem as plausible as possible, within certain limits. My first fanfic, so hope y'all like. It *might* be a bit slow paced, but will throw tit-bits out every now and again; and should be worth it in the end. More chapters will be out anon! Tell me what you think! :)

The brass gates folded open. Two men walked from the lifts into the Ministry atrium. Their heels clicked, almost in unison, against the polished dark wood floor. A crowd of journalists and photographers, who had been loitering idly in the room for hours, suddenly caught sight of the pair. They ran, frenzied, towards them, barking out questions, the photographers jostling for a good position.

The first man – spherical in shape and tailored in the finest midnight-blue robes - walked slightly in front, a dignified expression on his wide face. His companion, however, had his eyes fixed on the floor, his long grey hair falling forward, obscuring his face. As the reporters encircled them, they came to a halt, and the man in front stepped forward more prominently, almost blocking his companion from view. Questions were thrown from every angle.

"Are you happy with the verdict?" A small man wheezed from the front, quill in hand. "Do you feel liberated?"

"What will you do, now that you've been vindicated?"

"Were you _really_  coerced into performing Voldemort's wishes?"

“Can you confirm that no money has changed hands regarding the outcome?”

"Word has it that no family members – not even your wife - attended the trial," a blond-haired witch simpered. She leaned further in, turning her voice to a highly dramatic, far-reaching whisper. "I _do_ hope everything is alright at home, but according to my sources, something is _definitely_  amiss at Malfoy Manor.” She smirked, and turned to the photographer next to her. “I’m thinking: ‘Lucius Malfoy: Murderer or Mouse?’ What do you think? I’ve only got a few more pages to write. You’ll never  _guess_ what Borgin told me when I visited him. He worked there for a while, didn’t you know? _So_  many gruesome stories, who knew that that Hand of Glory was first used to-”

“Ahem.” The man in blue cleared his throat, glaring at the witch. Rita Skeeter (for it was she) snorted loudly and gave him a smirk that he did not return. He waited as silence quickly fell on the crowd. They could hear his wheezing breaths as they waited for him to speak.

“Good afternoon.” He said. His voice was deep but soft. A few of the journalists leaned further in, cocking their ears towards him. “I will be reading a short prepared statement from my client regarding the outcome of this case.” He paused, no doubt for emphasis. Rita Skeeter’s eyes were wide, her Quick Quotes Quill hovering in the air beside her. “I am pleased and humbled today that the Wizengamot saw fit to accept my plea. I could not wish for a better outcome. Since the end of the War, my family and I have been most keen to wash away the past and start afresh-“

“I bet,” muttered Rita, quite audibly. Many in the crowd laughed.

“ _and start afresh,_ ” the man repeated, raising his voice. The laughter dissipated. “With today’s outcome, we can finally close the door on a most painful chapter of our lives, and start to regain a semblance of normality. I would like to thank the Ministry for their support and cooperation, but most of all I would like to thank my family. I would also ask that the press allow us privacy at this time. Thank you.”

As he finished speaking, the cacophony immediately resumed – more questions, snide comments, the jolts of flashing bulbs. But the lawyer raised his hand. There was no more to be got from him or his dishevelled client, and they started walking again, this time towards the grates on the right hand side of the chamber, which glowed acid green with Floo residue. A few reporters, Rita Skeeter among them, followed the pair.

  
But before she could get too close, the grey-haired man spotted her and, after nodding quickly to the other, stepped into a grate, sprinkled a handful of powder about him and disappeared. Rita’s face fell as she saw his body spin out of sight. Within seconds, she began to approach the lawyer, but he was one step ahead of her.

“Don’t you have an Animagus in order to eavesdrop on private conversations?” he said, with a nasty smile. Rita smirked, but showed no sign of embarrassment.

“Oh Gryff, don’t be such a grump,” she laughed, showing her very white pointed teeth. “A girl’s got to earn a living! As of course, do you…” she gazed at the lawyer cunningly, then gave a feigned gasp of admiration. “Ever such nice robes, Gryff, look custom-stitched to me, I’m sure they must have cost top-Galleon…and is that a new watch?” The lawyer lost patience and turned away, swatting her back as if she was a mosquito. He began to walk towards the grate when she grabbed the back of his robes. “Come on, how much did he pay you to get him off? Give us the inside story, Gryff, and you can have as many private tailoring appointments with Madam Malkin as you li- agh!” she was thrown back a few paces from him as if by an electric shock, but managed to retain her balance. Gryff didn’t look back, and within seconds he too had gone.

 

Two women stood by the great fountain, having watched the entire exchange. Both held bundles of papers tied up with golden ribbon.

“Can you believe he got off?” whispered the younger of the two.

“He didn’t say he had,” the other said thoughtfully. “He said they had _accepted his plea_. I suppose it might amount to the same thing – Gryff looked bloody relieved, anyway.” She sighed. “I don’t know, maybe he bribed someone?”

“But Gryff has a good reputation,” the younger woman said, frowning, “He’d never take part in anything rigged….would he?”

“I would have said it was unlikely,” mused her friend. “But he does like his finery…” They started to walk towards the lifts and were silent for a few moments as they flashed their identity badges at the guards. “I barely recognised _him_ , did you?”

“No, he looks awful, doesn’t he?”

“Remind me to put in an order at Flourish and Blotts for that book Skeeter was going on about, won’t you?” The older woman said, ducking a few lilac memos as they strode into the lift.

“You can’t be serious!”

“Oh I know it’ll be a load of Doxy droppings, but who cares? You can’t deny she’s an entertaining writer – and, well, a man like that. Looks like he’s been spared Azkaban -Lucius Malfoy should be thanking his Dirigible Plums that nothing worse has happened to him. Skeeter is welcome to him as far as I’m concerned.” The brass gates clicked shut and they shot off to Level Three. The younger woman grinned suspiciously across to her companion.

“You’ve been reading the Quibbler again, haven’t you?”

“What?! Of course not! A Ministry witch reading the Quibbler? I’d never be taken seriously again. Honestly, Droma, where _do_ you get these ideas from?” The witch rolled her eyes.

“’His _Dirigible Plums_ ’?” Droma suggested, snorting with laughter.

“Level Three: Department of Magical Accidents and –“

“Yes, yes, yes, we know,” the older witch snapped, and the gates to the lift sprang back. They walked in silence down the corridor, and Droma had the sneaking suspicion that before their meeting, Angela would hurry back to her office, lock the door and make sure her stack of Quibblers hidden inexpertly behind the bookcase was untouched.

Opening the door to their department, Angela ushered Droma in before her. She then hesitated on the threshold, her cheeks a little pink. “Droma – could you – err - get some water for us all and remind everyone that there _is_  a meeting in here – don’t know where everyone’s got to – I’ve just got to – I left some of the papers in my office, back in a tic!”

She scurried back down the corridor. Droma waved her wand and a jug hovered over to the sink. She could not help but suppress a smile. 


	2. Malfoy Manor

Lucius picked himself up from the stone flagons gingerly, and spat out the ash from his mouth. He’d lost concentration while travelling past the grates and almost missed his own. Gone were the days he used to do simple tasks with ease and grace, he thought, as he gripped the arm of a wing-backed chair, easing himself down into it. He took a few deep steadying breaths, as if preparing himself for a task. Then slowly he reached out for a tumbler full of what looked like Firewhiskey on a side table to his right. For a second he managed to grip it, but his hand shook so violently that it slipped from his grasp, smashing on the hearth. He tried to regain his breath and gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white.  

            “Now, now,” said a silky voice from the opposite side of the wall, “we can’t have that, _can_ we?” Lucius turned his head to see his own portrait smirking at him from within a magnificent silver frame, gesturing with his serpent-topped cane. He wondered bitterly whether one could destroy one’s own portrait or whether he’d be breaching his probation. But he was far too tired to argue. He pulled out a stubby wand from his robes and waved it.

            “Reparo,” he muttered. The shards of glass flew through the air and gathered back together, assembling by the claw-foot of his armchair. He picked the repaired glass up slowly and tapped it again with his wand. “Scourgify,” he said, and he held it, shaking slightly, up to the light. The crystal still looked cloudy, and he could make out little cracks on one side where the glass hadn’t fused properly. He sighed and looked at the wand in his hand. It was short, feather-light and brown in colour, like sand. They had stuck it into his robes before the trial had ended, but no explanation had been given. He felt no warmth, no connection, when he held it, nor was it very powerful. Lucius couldn’t help thinking, however, that perhaps it wasn’t the wand that was the problem – perhaps it was _him_. After all, he hadn’t actually performed any magic since… He shuddered at the thought, and instinctively flicked his head towards the door to the left. It led upstairs, to the dining room. He still couldn’t go in. It still stank of blood. He shivered and half-dropped the glass onto the table beside him.

            “ _That’s_ better,” his doppelganger drawled from the portrait. “Not quite the respect the ancestral home deserves, clumsily destroying the glassware…” Lucius glared at his own face, a face he hardly recognised now.

The portrait had been painted years earlier, when everything had been so much easier, when there had been no fear of retribution from either side. That Lucius was young and vain, his blonde hair tied back with a black ribbon, his grey eyes bright, a permanent smirk across his face. Normally, Narcissa had sat on a chair beside him; smiling back at the viewer, occasionally gazing up at her husband, or playing with the baby Draco in her arms. Today, however, the chair beside Lucius’ figure was empty - neither her nor Draco were anywhere to be seen. “What’s happening? Where’s Narcissa and Draco?” his own portrait demanded. “What have you _done_ to this family?” Lucius turned his head from the painting and looked into the empty grate. He passed a hand over his eyes.

            “I don’t know,” he said, “I – I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! There's oodles more to come, but I hope you enjoyed a first sneak peek at poor old Lucius. Short but sweet! :)


	3. The Repair & Reparation Office

Four of them sat around a wooden table, covered with stacks of paper – thick bundles tied up with different coloured ribbon, loose files, newspaper articles, reports, logs, transcripts…. When she had first started at the R&R Office a few months ago, Droma had been amazed that all the paperwork could fit on the rather rickety table, overwhelming as it always seemed to be. Now she wondered how she could have been so naïve – Angela simply used an Expansion Charm, depending on how manic things were. And surveying the table this time, things looked –

            “Pretty hairy this month, chaps!” Angela said brightly, peering at her colleagues over her rimless glasses. “Quite a lot to do, it seems!” She gestured to the sprawling mass of paper that covered so much of the table that their glasses of Periwinkle water were now hovering by each person’s shoulder. Angela perused the clipboard in front of her. “Now obviously I’ll come and have a chat to you all in person regarding your individual cases, but can I make a special mention of Eleri? She’s still off work, I’m afraid, and will be for the foreseeable future, but she’s still managed to complete some fantastic work. Colleagues on Level Five have informed me that her preliminary report on the international implications of the Great Repair was very thorough, _and_ her summary from the IWS was even brought up in the Minister’s briefing, so congratulations to her…” There was a general murmur of appreciation around the table. Droma bit her lip. This was the seventh week Eleri had been off work – apparently suffering from some kind of spore allergy -  and Droma had a nagging suspicion that something wasn’t quite Quidditch .“Hmm, what else...?” muttered Angela. “Oh yes – Miriam.”

            “Yep?” A short woman in cyan robes jerked forwards.

            “How’s everything in Diagon Alley going?” Miriam sighed.

            “Slow,” she said. “Essentially, there are so many departments wanting their five minutes of fame and trying to take the bulk of the work on themselves, that it’s a bit of a headache to manage. On top of that, everyone’s still a little suspicious of Ministry involvement. We’re doing some research on the ground and talking to residents about how they want things to proceed – but really, it’s all still so fresh and painful for a lot of them that it’s difficult to formulate any solid ideas.”

            “At least the Weasleys are still there though,” said Droma. Miriam nodded.

            “Yes, you’re right about that. People in the area seem to feel that the Weasleys’ place is the heart and soul of the Alley.” She flicked through her notes. “Many of the shoppers admitted it was the only reason they come to the Alley now.”

            “Dear me,” said Angela, “And dare I ask about Gringotts?”

            “I’ve decided that I might need some help with that from Level Four. I’m not a Goblin expert, and even trying to communicate efficiently with them is difficult at the moment. As for the building itself, there are Aurors and colleagues of ours ensuring the protective enchantments are still strong, even if the Goblins won’t let us into the vaults yet.”

            “Hmm,” Angela frowned and scribbled something onto her clipboard. “I’ll see what I can do regarding your Goblin problem.” She frowned. “We can’t have the vaults inaccessible for too long – we are the Repair and _Reparation_ Office, after all.” There was a few seconds of silence. “Keats. The million Galleon question – how’s Hogwarts?” She had turned to a thin, serious looking young man on her left. He gave a strained smile.

            “Getting there,” he said. “Most of the damage has been repaired of course. It’s more the human aspect – getting the parents to trust the place again, plugging the staff vacancies, that sort of thing. As Miriam mentioned, Diagon Alley is a bit of a problem too, as many of the shops that are vital to the student’s needs – especially first-years - are still derelict. Shall we have a talk later about that, Miriam?” He gestured to her, and she smiled.

            “It may well be worth talking to Minerva about all of that, remember,” Angela shook her quill admonishingly. “It’s a fool indeed who tries to exclude _her_ from Hogwarts business.”

            “Yes, of course,” Keats replied, although he looked a little anxious at the suggestion.

            “Last but not least, Droma.” Angela nodded encouragingly at her.

            “Well,” Droma began, “We’ve been visiting a few neighbourhoods more directly affected by the war – crime scenes, to begin with,” she paused, “and then also, if surviving, any victims or relatives of victims. St Mungo’s have been pretty helpful with that, and I’ve started to build up a picture of the likely services the Ministry will have to provide for these groups. It’s important that the victims and/or their families get top priority for help if they require it, whatever that might be – access to Healers, Auror protection, that sort of thing. There are locations that we have deemed potentially hostile so we’re letting the Aurors sniff around those first. There’s always so much to consider.” She sighed. “It’s early days.”

            “Yes, that’s an important detail to remember,” Angela said seriously, looking at each one of them in turn. “Just because the war is over and things look a little brighter, does _not_ mean that the whole country feels the same. There are Death Eaters who are still in hiding; there are still wizards who adhere to their creed; there are still those who discriminate in terms of blood status. Don’t forget it.” They murmured assent. “Well, that’s enough for now. I’ll come and see you all individually later on.”

They scraped their chairs back and gathered their things together. Miriam and Keats disappeared through a door to the left. Angela was waving her wand at the different swathes of papers on the table, arranging them into neater piles and sending them flying into various wooden pigeon holes on the wall behind her. Droma was about to leave herself – she needed to go over a few reports with the Auror Office -  but Angela sat back down, beckoning her over.

            “I’ve got a little challenge for you,” she said. Droma smiled, but her face belied her thoughts.

            “A challenge?” Angela raised a well-plucked eyebrow.

            “Yes. And when I say, *little*…” She waved her wand again and half a dozen navy blue files, all wrapped in black ribbon and all about as thick as well-stuffed pillows, flew towards Droma and fell onto the table with an impressive thunck. “Now, you _can_ refuse, Droma - I mean, I wouldn’t blame you,” Angela said, looking a little nervous. “This will not be easy. It wasn’t earmarked for you originally…But – you did mention in your appraisal that you wanted your work to be stretching you and you wanted to get a bit more experience of magical justice –“ Droma looked at her with great apprehension.

            “Yes…?” she murmured, inwardly kicking herself that she could have been so idiotic.

            “Well…!” With a wave of her wand, Angela undid the ribbon from the top packet and it flopped open.

            Droma turned over the first sheet of paper. It was a Probation Record. She relaxed; that was alright, she’d done some probation work before. Even the more unpleasant of her clients had achieved certain levels of success – well, compared to what they had been doing before. Perhaps Angela thought she was a safe pair of hands now? She smiled. And then she read the name, written, just like any other, in that comforting Ministry font she knew so well. Her mouth gaped open, and she stared up at Angela, who looked a little pale herself.

            “You have  _got_ to be joking," she breathed. "Lucius Malfoy...?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, fellow Potterheads, thanks for reading! Do leave kudos and comments, it really would make my life. And if you're interested, the IWS stands for International Wizarding Summit.


	4. Incredulity

                        “It’s laughable,” Droma said, jumping up from her chair in the Minister’s Office. She clutched her glass of Firewhiskey and looked from Angela to Minister Shacklebolt in disbelief. They both looked uncomfortable. Droma didn’t consider herself to be a particularly troublesome worker, had never bridled against a task before, nor had she had Firewhiskey before noon – but this was different. “How has this even happened!?” she asked, incredulously.

            “Droma, you saw him coming out from the trial just as I did-“ Angela started, shifting in her chair.

            “Yes,” she said impatiently, “but I didn’t ever think he’d be treated _the same_ as every other criminal that’s gone through the system!” Droma couldn’t believe she had to explain this. “He’s been treated even better than some of them – there weren’t any Dementors at _his_ trial, were there? Unlike so many innocents during the war. And _how_ is he not in Azkaban, Minister!?” She glared at Shacklebolt and raised an eyebrow. He put up his hand.

            “Before you say something you regret,” he said slowly, “the trial was completely fair. He was acquitted with the rest of his family. Gryff is one of the best barristers in Britain. As for the Dementors, I’m sure you agree that they are not a fair or reasonable addition to any courtroom, irrespective of party. But are you suggesting that the Ministry should have influenced the trial? That there should be rules for some, and not for others?” Shacklebolt looked up at Droma and smiled gently at her infuriation.

            “Of course we all would *prefer* him to be locked up in Azkaban,” Angela said quickly, “but justice is justice.”

            “And, with this outcome,” Kingsley continued, “we must go through the proper procedures, even with him – especially with him.” He sighed. Droma noticed the dark circles around his eyes. “It is vital everything is done above board, and there’s dozens more to sentence – Yaxley, Dolohov, Rawle. The ‘Followers Trials’, they’re calling them. ” He paused. “You say you saw him come out of the trial?”

            “Yes,” said Droma.

            “And have you read the trial transcripts?” He gestured to rolls of parchment on his desk, written in dark purple ink.

            “No,” Droma said, “But-“

            “I think if you give them a read, you may not be quite so incredulous at the outcome. Gryff was excellent, there’s no doubt about that – but Malfoy himself, he seemed…” He trailed off. “What I’m trying to say, is that it was clear that he had been a _victim_ of Voldemort, especially in the last year or two, and that in some ways, he tried to distance himself from the regime.” Droma opened her mouth to argue, but he again put up his hand. “Read the transcripts. You’ll understand.” He sighed. “You can’t win sometimes, Droma. Albus knows we’d much rather wizards like him were safely housed in Azkaban, but there’s always a few that slip through the net. So, it’s partly our responsibility to ensure he keeps his hands clean. Some of his old friends are still at large, after all… He’s bound to be charged an eye-watering sum in reparation fees to the victims,” he added.

            “Good,” Droma said viciously.

            “That’ll hurt him a lot more than it would others,” Angela mused. “A man like him, patriarch of a noble wizarding family, has such pride. Giving away the family silver will cost him dear.” She turned to Shacklebolt. “When you say eye-watering, Minister… I mean, what’s happening to Malfoy Manor? Will it be sold?”

            Shacklebolt shrugged. “I’m unsure. It might well be a decision Droma here has to make – after speaking to Malfoy himself, of course. It will depend on his income, but we’re not falling over ourselves for it to be on the market. Oh, it would draw in a few morbid crowds, I’m sure, but would anyone want to live there after everything that’s gone on? And imagine the anti-pureblood traps and charms that protect it. It would be a nightmare to procure.” Shacklebolt rubbed his eyes and rose from his chair, indicating the end of the meeting. He shook hands with the pair of them and smiled gently at Droma. “Read those transcripts, Droma. And call on Gryff Pardry, if need be. He should be contactable by Floo.”

                                                                        ****

            Droma slammed the door to her office, and the portrait of a rather dour-faced woman on the wall next to the window threw her a dirty look.

            “Oh, get over it,” Droma snapped, letting the great multitude of parchment fall from her arms onto her desk, next to the fat navy files that Angela had accosted her with earlier. She flopped down in her chair and sighed. And it wasn’t even lunchtime. Half-heartedly she gazed at the trial notes, but she couldn’t focus.

            “It’s completely ridiculous!” she said aloud. And although she had to agree the Minister was right, _surely_ they had to do something differently? He wasn’t just some petty owl-burglar. He was Lucius Malfoy. The idea of having probation meetings with him every week, visiting him at home – helping him reintegrate into society – she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. They couldn’t be serious.

Anyway, she thought suddenly, Angela said the case had been earmarked for someone else originally, so maybe she could just - say no? She sat up, thinking quickly. She wasn’t the only brain in the department, and there were plenty of others who could do it. The Minister himself had said there were loads of other trials to come, so there’d probably be a taskforce… Yes, she thought steadily, I’ll ask to weasel out of it. Her eyes rested on the photographs displayed on the mantelpiece, all in pewter frames. Pictures of her family, friends - and one of her, clutching her NEWTs results one morning at home, over breakfast. Droma sank back into her chair and closed her eyes when a violent splutter came from her fireplace.

            “Good day, Officer Jefferies,” said a fat ruddy face, which took up at least half of her grate. She inched a bit closer to the fire on her chair and leant forward, a little apprehensive. “It’s Gryff Pardry.”

            “Oh! Mr Pardry, exc-“

 “You’ll excuse me being blunt,” he said, softly as always, “but I don’t have time for small talk, Officer Jefferies. Kingsley’s been on at me - tells me you’re feeling a bit overwhelmed about this particular Malfoy-shaped task.” Droma flushed. Word spread quickly in the Ministry, almost impossibly so. ‘Overwhelmed’?

“The only problem I’m having, Mr Pardry,” she said, sharply, “is trying to conceive a way in which a man who has committed acts of atrocity can be reintegrated into normal wizarding society.”

“He’s been sentenced lawfully by the ‘Gamot, what more do you want?” Gryff smiled unhelpfully, “And I daresay there’s ways and means. Kingsley said you hadn’t read the transcripts. Have you now?” She rolled her eyes incredulously.

“Not yet, no.” She paused. “I’ve just read the list of charges.”

“It gets better as it goes along, I promise,” he chuckled. “People are almost always more complicated than you think or want, Officer Jefferies. Lucius, for example. We all of us have bayed for blood since the Battle of Hogwarts, and what happens? Lucius hands himself in, forgets half his magic and is basically let off by the Wizengamot.”

“Hands himself _in_?” Droma asked, her eyes wide.

“’Sblood, girl, have you read _any_ of that material? Just make sure you do, especially before meeting him.” He paused, and a coal shifted a few centimetres from the top of his forehead to his small shiny nose. “Let me know by owl when you’d like a preliminary probation meeting. I’m a rather busy man these days – Dolohov’s stating his plea tomorrow and I’ve got Selwyn next week too, but should be able to squeeze in a visit to the Manor somewhere.” He eyed her beadily. “And read the damn papers!” Then he vanished, the fire settling back to ember.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muchos thanks for staying with it. Hope it's keeping your attention! There will be Lucius reasonably soon, promise, but you gotta stay with it. The slower it is, the more delectable it will be...right?! Pretty please leave kudos/comments/violent exclamations. You'll make this Lucius-lover a happy bunny.


	5. Inside Courtroom Two

                “Incendio,” she muttered, waving her wand at the grate. A fire sprang up amongst the bundle of firewood and crackled away merrily. Droma drew the purple curtains across the window and flopped down onto the sofa, kicking off her shoes. Almost automatically she reached out to her right and found what her fingers were after: a glass, perilously full with wine. She grinned as she sipped it, and sighed contentedly.  After a few minutes of joyously doing nothing at all, she glanced to the rug below her, where she had deposited the trial transcripts.

                “Well,” she groaned out loud to herself, “no time like the present I suppose…” She picked up the first page.

 

_HIGHLY CLASSIFIED                                         Wizengamot                                                      HIGHLY CLASSIFIED_

_Ignorantia Iuris Neminem Excusat_

_Courtroom Two, Level Ten_

_Tuesday 2 nd June 1998_

_1100 hours_

_The following notes & minutes taken by Court Scribe, Esther Nightwing. (Accuracy Quill; Lie-proof Ink)_

_PRESS PROHIBITED_

_Full ‘gamot sitting. Chief Warlock - Hestia Jones._

_Also in attendance: Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, Private Secretary to the Minister, Stephen Prewett._

_No family members of the accused are in attendance_

_Accused: Lucius Malfoy_

_Defence: Mr Gryff Pardry W.A.L., of Messrs Pardry and Witworth, 16a Diagon Alley_

_Prosecution: In-house; Miranda Steckles W.A.L._

_***_

_Chief Warlock: This court is now in session._

_I would like to say a few words, given the nature and context of this trial, before beginning, if the defence and prosecution do not object. Thank you. Firstly, I would like to thank the Minister himself for expunging the Dementors from our courtrooms._

_It seems as though this trial will be the first in a long line of tribunals considering the crimes and actions of various members of the wizarding community, many of whom were supporters, directly or indirectly, of Voldemort. I use that name, Voldemort, purposefully, and will expect others to follow my lead. It was a name associated with great power: it now is a dead name, but woe betide that we should forget why and for what purpose it existed. We should not fear it, but acknowledge it as the tool for fear it became._

_We, at the Ministry, are ourselves partly to blame for the atmosphere of corruption and evil that spread throughout the country preceding and during the war. Our officials purged and our processes scourged, we are now on course to a brighter future, due much to the efforts of the Order of the Phoenix and the heroic actions of Harry Potter. We have made mistakes, but I hope all listening will believe me when I say, that we have also learnt from them. It will not be easy, but as a wise man once said, we have to choose between what is right, and what it easy . The Ministry has chosen._

_It is vital that we act quickly and firmly with those found guilty of crimes. Especially – and I say this with great emphasis – especially those who are found to have committed acts of atrocity against others due to their blood status. We do not believe in censoring opinion, or oppressing the freedom of speech. You are within your rights, as free magical folk, to have myriad views and, within certain limits, to express those views.  However, to bully, agitate or act against another being, human or otherwise, because of their blood status or racial characteristics, is a crime. This law has for too long been dismissed. We aim to re-establish the balance now, and I hope the prosecution and defence have taken this into account._

_You are the justice-givers, my fellow Wizens. Be considered in your decisions, and firm in your actions. Remember that *justice* is in your power, not retribution, not liberality, but justice. Thank you._

_Please bring the accused in._

_Could you please state your name for the court?_

_Accused: Lucius Malfoy._

_CW: Lucius Malfoy, in the presence of the Wizengamot, you are hereby charged with the following crimes – grave sedition, six counts of aiding and abetting, torture, being an accessory after the fact, possessing illegal dark objects and substances, nine counts of assault, absconding from magical imprisonment, handling stolen goods, criminal damage and twelve counts of racially aggravated actual bodily harm._

_Are you ready to enter a plea?_

_A: [indistinguishable]_

_CW: Could you speak louder for the court, please?_

_A: I am._

_Defence counsel: May I just affirm that the plea will cover all charges, your Honour._

_CW: Thank you, Mr Pardry._

_Lucius Malfoy, regarding the charges hereby accused of you, do you plead guilty, or not guilty?_

_A: Guilty, your Honour._

_CW: In which case, Mr Malfoy, the Wizengamot will have to deliberate your sentence for a short time. Before we do so, would either the defence or the prosecution like to make any remarks?_

_DC: I would, your Honour._

_Prosecution: I too, your Honour._

_CW: Very well. Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Steckles._

_P: Thank you Chief Warlock._

_With Mr Malfoy’s plea, we have been robbed of our opportunity to hear him reason for his crimes. They are long and many, as you have just heard. We will never know how he can reason the years he spent at Voldemort’s side, doing his immediate bidding. We will never know how he can reason the torture of Muggles and Muggle-borns, proved from wand evidence and from eye-witness accounts. We will never know how he can reason for the *twelve* counts of racially aggravated actual bodily harm, some of the victims of which still lie in St. Mungos’._

_Those in his employ, and in his pocket, will somehow try to paint him as a victim, as a man under pressure. But surely, it is in times such as those, when one is tested – when one chooses between what is right, and what is easy. The Chief Warlock made this clear in her opening remarks. Happily, the country is now headed by those who, under pressure, took the right path. Should we then show mercy to a man who took the easy road?_

_We all know, as he does, that he is guilty and must pay the price. Normally with a guilty plea, there is a greater chance of clemency. I would argue, however, with crimes so many and of such great magnitude, that the accused is owed no such liberty. Being guilty of simply *one* of these crimes would send a normal wizard to Azkaban; here there are thirty-three. He committed them wilfully, he boasted about them, he even absconded from the punishment he received from them._

_I cannot be plainer. Here sits Voldemort’s chief lieutenant. We cannot be merciful. We need to send out a strong message. If we do not, there is no telling what will happen. This is still a febrile and dangerous time; let us not undermine our safety or our authority by giving in when the magical community need us to be firm. It is without hesitation that I, on behalf of the Ministry, recommend life imprisonment at Azkaban prison. This time the Muggle-borns will sleep soundly in their beds, because he will never come out. Thank you._

_CW: Thank you, Ms. Steckles. Mr Pardry?_

_DC: Thank you, Chief Warlock._

_The man that sits in the middle of the chamber here, we all know him. We have all known about him for years. He is infamous. But let me enlighten you as to why I took this case. It was not for the fame. It was not for the money, as much as the press like to imagine. It was because here sits a sinful man before you, who dared to say no._

_Of course, he himself admits the crimes for which he is guilty of: that is fair, and it is fairness we seek. Neither he nor I are endeavouring to wipe away blame. He took the easy path to start with. But the crucial point, the point I would beg you to focus on, was that Lucius Malfoy, the chief lieutenant of Voldemort, as my colleague rightly says, changed his mind. Was that an easy path? How many of you, in his place, would have done so, in the face of Lord Voldemort? Perhaps some of you, perhaps most of you would, because you are strong. But you are not Lucius Malfoy._

_Here is Lucius Malfoy. Let me tell you about him. He no longer has a wand: that was taken and destroyed by Voldemort. He no longer has a happy family: Voldemort divided them by pressurising his son into murder. He no longer has a home he can call his own: Voldemort conducted the war from there, and there committed murder. He can no longer Apparate: he has lost the ability. He can no longer perform non-verbal spells: he has lost the ability. He can no longer hold a quill: he has lost the ability. He is broken._

_This broken man said no. For the love of his family, to do something right after a life of wrongs, not only did Lucius defect at the Battle of Hogwarts, but the day afterwards, he came to you, and he gave himself in. He also, as you may know, expressed remorse. Many Death Eaters saw him, searching for his son during the Battle, and leaving Hogwarts afterwards. Many know that he handed himself in. He walks apart from them._

_Lucius began his life as a weak man, and remains a weak man. But I would ask you, Chief Warlock and members of the Wizengamot, not to throw away his first act of strength and abandon him to Azkaban. For all his crimes, I would also like to remind you, that murder was never one of them, which cannot be said for the other Death Eaters we have here imprisoned, and against whom, Lucius is willing to testify._

_My honourable colleague tells you that we must send a strong message; I tell you the same. My message, however, is one of hope and goodness, not of division and war-mongering. The war is over, and we must embrace change, especially change that comes from unexpected places. Are we so resentful that we spurn a change of heart when we see it? Are we so backward that we would rather punish and exile an act of goodness, than cautiously encourage it? Have we come so far, only to act like we did of old? I will not deign to recommend a course of action to you – my client expects the worst – but I, as an old dreamer, will never stop hoping for better. Thank you._

_CW: Thank you, Mr Pardry. The Wizengamot will now deliberate, and there will be a recess. You may take the accused away. Court adjourned._

_[deliberation – VI hours]_

_1726 hours_

_CW: Court is now in session. Please bring in the accused._

_Thank you for your patience, everybody, it has been a very hard deliberation. I will be brief. Could the accused stand for the sentence?_

_[Accused stands]_

_I, Chief Warlock Jones, on behalf of the Wizengamot, do hereby accept the plea, and find the accused, Lucius Malfoy, guilty of all charges. However, due to extraordinary mitigating circumstances, we will not impose incarceration; a strict probation instead must be followed indefinitely. A statement will be published for the press within the hour. Mr Pardry?_

_DC: Yes, your Honour._

_CW: Please accompany your client out and begin the probationary procedure. I am sure the Minister will wish to advise you further on the matter. I believe a probationary officer has been found?_

_DC: I believe so, your Honour, from the Repair and Reparations Department._

_CW: Very good. Court dismissed. Thank you._

                Dorma tossed the parchment aside and drained the last of her elderberry wine. Her brain buzzed with information, and she was just as conflicted as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this wasn't too dry for y'all! Lucius coming soon, promise, just have to lay a good foundation. As always, please like/kudos me up/interact if you wanna, would make this Slytherin very happy. 
> 
> [Oh, and W.A.L. is a completely made-up thang, and stands for Wizard At Law for the geekier ones among you.]


	6. Droma Dithers

Droma sank into the chair in the Minister’s office rather uneasily and started to fiddle with the sleeves of her robes. Shacklebolt, eyeing her closely, came around and half-sat, half-leaned on the front of his desk. He folded his arms. 

  
            “So,” he said, in his natural deep comforting tone, “how did you get on?” Droma shifted in her chair a little and bit her lip. She glanced up quickly at Shacklebolt, then looked away, her eyes darting across the floor, distracted. “You  _did_ read them, didn’t you?”

  
            “Yes,” she said slowly, “I did.”

  
            “Ah.” Droma looked up to see his lips drawn into a disappointed smile. He straightened up from the desk and walked towards the window. The morning light seemed to shine around him, his silhouette framed against the rooftops of London. The silence only agitated her.

  
            “I’m sorry,” she burst out, “And I know that I should be a _professional_ about this; that everything is different now, that we need to treat everyone the same. I know the spiel.” She saw Shacklebolt move from the corner of her eye, as if to speak, but she ploughed on, “But I  _just can’t get over it_. Surely whatever mitigating circumstances there might be in his favour, they can’t possibly be stronger than the evidence against him?” Shacklebolt turned to face her. 

  
            “Are you telling me, Officer Jefferies,” he asked, sharply, “That you know better than the Wizengamot?” Droma opened her mouth and closed it again.

  
            “No, of course not…” She stood up from the chair and paced around the room, trying to collect her thoughts, “But you can understand why people are outraged about it. It’s being talked of all over the Ministry, people have all sorts of crazy ideas…”

“Enlighten me,” Shacklebolt said, coldly. “Is it perhaps that even though we’ve entered a new time, that we’ve started to clean ourselves up, that really we’re no better than Thicknesse, or Scrimgeour, or Fudge? That Malfoy’s still got a lot of money down in Gringotts and it might be unwise to make an enemy of him? That Shacklebolt worked under all the previous Ministers, but somehow none of the dirt stuck?” Droma stopped in her tracks. Shacklebolt sighed, looking at the portraits around the wood-panelled walls of previous incumbents. “Believe me,” he said heavily, “I’ve heard them all.” He sat behind the desk, and leaned forwards across it, his hands clasped. 

  
            “The ‘gamot verdict alone should be enough for you – for anyone,” he said, firmly. “The Wizengamot is made up of some of the wisest and brilliant minds in the land, and they do not make a judgment rashly. They hand out the law, and we should accept it.” Droma felt her cheeks burn. Shacklebolt hesitated and peered at her, as if choosing between two different courses of action. Eventually he sighed and gestured to the chair opposite his own. “Sit.” She returned to her chair.

“When Malfoy handed himself in,” he began, “we couldn’t believe it. We thought, as everyone still does, that a coward doesn’t just stride over and put his head in the dragon’s mouth. It was too good to be true.” He paused and sighed slowly. Droma wanted to raise an eyebrow at him but thought better of it.

            “I checked him over myself. People looked to me to do it – they thought it was might be a ruse, they were frightened of what he might do, but you only had to be in a room with him to see his mind. During the weeks leading up to his trial, as we tried to interrogate him, I could tell he had given up.” Shacklebolt’s eyes stared into an unknown distance as he remembered. “He was broken, wasted, full of self-hatred. He has lost everything he relished – apart from his money, and even that, although useful, seems surprisingly to have lost its shine. The Malfoy name, which once was thought of as noble, ancient and powerful, is now instead seen as cowardly and weak. Remember, Droma,” he insisted, holding her gaze, “that his name is everything to him. He is vain and proud. Discovering that he is suddenly weak and wandless, reduced like so many others after the war, is thus a double blow to him.” He paused.

“In a way, he hates part of himself for not doing _enough_ , not immersing himself enough in the twisted world Voldemort created – as Bellatrix did, for example. He hates himself for defecting. But a stronger part of himself, I believe, hates himself for going along with it for so _long_ , subjecting his family to such peril. He knows that he is the author of their pain; that he is the one that has caused them to splinter, and he fears it is irrevocable. I believe his defection was an act of self-punishment. He is greatly conflicted.” The Minister paused again. Droma had no wish to reply, and so he continued.

            “Now, despite all this, you have objections. They are well-known and much advocated. I sympathise with them myself.” He considered. “Perhaps you think he is irredeemable. But Droma, we cannot brand people as irredeemable; stick them in one camp or another – every man, however dark his past, can be worth saving. Some, certainly, only feel like there is one path to tread – but I am not asking for you to assist them. _This_ man is the one I need watching.”

He lowered his voice so Droma had to lean in to hear him. “Malfoy, during his interrogation, signed a document,” he said, withdrawing a small slip of parchment from his robes and unfolding it on the desk, “a document confirming he would give evidence against any Death Eater or Follower in order to aid conviction. He was not pressured into signing this, but he may well have second thoughts in the future. His evidence may well prove vital, Droma,” he said, emphatically, his eyes wide, “he has, despite the world’s opinion, done a very brave thing in offering it. But - he needs a practiced hand.” He leant back and surveyed her. She looked back at him, steadily.

            “Now, that might not be you, Droma. You are perfectly within your rights to refuse this. I know, however, that you are clever, ambitious, and keen to succeed.” He began counting on his fingers. “You already have probationary experience as well as having worked in the Auror’s Office, and despite your present objections, I feel that you generally approach things in an unbiased way. The unlikely coincidence of being both a Muggle born _and_ a Slytherin is also a quality Angela and I reckoned would help with Malfoy specifically.”

            “Why?” she asked, caught off-guard. Shacklebolt smiled.

            “We hoped that, if you took the case, Malfoy could begin to understand that the purity of one’s blood has no effect on one’s capability or skill. It is his racist views that got him into this mess, after all."

            Droma hesitated, her eyes fixed on Shacklebolt. “You did a deal with him, didn’t you? If he gave evidence against the rest of them, he would be spared Azkaban.”

            “He was in no position to offer us anything,” he said shortly. “Gryff had mentioned to us in private that Malfoy was willing to provide evidence, and I think he would have liked a bargain, but in these circumstances, it was impossible. There was no dirty dealing, Droma,” he sighed impatiently, “but I can give you a whole list of potential reasons why he was not sent to Azkaban. I am not a member of the Wizengamot, and of course Chief Warlock Jones is far too professional a witch to have shared their deliberations with me – but.” He cleared his throat and continued with reckless speed. “One – he is willing to provide evidence, and getting this evidence from him will be a lot easier if he’s within arm’s reach, reasonably sane, and not crumbling in a cell in Azkaban. Two – he defected from the Death Eaters, handed himself in and pleaded guilty to his crimes. Three – according to the Potter Memorandum, he suggested that Voldemort cease the Battle of Hogwarts so he could find his son. Four – the Ministry believes sending Malfoy to Azkaban for a second time would, indirectly, cause his death. Five – he poses no immediate threat to the magical community: he will remain wandless for a long time, but even then his magical abilities will be low. Six – the Ministry believes that a change of heart should be encouraged, rather than spurned. Shall I continue?” Droma sighed, and shook her head. After collecting himself a little, Shacklebolt smiled at her kindly.

            “As I said, Droma, don’t agree to this unless you _want_  to do it. It won’t be easy. There are others I can ask – Angela said Keats, from your office, would appreciate a task like this.” Droma felt a slight pang of jealousy, which she immediately hated herself for. She rose from her chair.

            “Could I have some time to think about it?” Shacklebolt rolled his eyes, but smiled and nodded.

            “I want an answer by 9 o’clock on Monday morning. If I don’t hear from you by then, the case will be re-assigned. Deal?” He held out his hand across the desk, and she shook it.

            “Deal,” she said. She hesitated by the door, and turned back. “Minister, you said – that sending him to Azkaban would – err…”

            “Cause his death. Yes?”

            “Could I ask –“ Droma suggested, a little timidly, “what you mean by that?”

            “Certainly,” Shacklebolt said nonchalantly, folding the signed slip of parchment and pocketing it, “I think you would agree that one needs a certain – constitution – to survive in a place like Azkaban?” She nodded. “Well, after liaising with Healers - we simply regard him as lacking that constitution. It was his first internment in Azkaban that sealed his fate – it ground the life out of him. At the moment, he has so little life in him that he wouldn’t last longer than a couple of months in there, even without the Dementors.”

            “Right,” Droma said. She opened the door and walked out, her mind still reeling, and before the door closed, she heard Shacklebolt shout from behind her.

            “Monday, Droma! 9 o’clock sharp!”

            “Yes, yes,” she muttered to herself, looking at her watch. “Bodrod’s breeches, _how_  is it not lunchtime yet?” She strode into a lift, hoping that by the time it arrived at another level, she’d remember where she was supposed to be. She couldn’t concentrate on anything else, not just yet.

 

                                                                                                                         ***

 

            By the time she had returned to her office, her mind had spun through her whole conversation with Shacklebolt at least a dozen times. Droma had passed Keats on the way in, and she thought he looked at her slightly strangely as she smiled at him in greeting. Perhaps he knew she didn’t want the job, and was on his way to claim it. Another sickening stab of jealousy shot through her. Droma poured herself some Periwinkle water and sat down.

            It made a little more sense, she thought, _perhaps_. The Azkaban thing, anyway. They wouldn’t condemn a man to death, pathetic or otherwise – that seemed permissible. She checked herself. “But that’s not the point, is it?” She ran her fingers through her messy, tangled hair. “The point is, do I want to do it?”

            “Isn’t it your _job_?” asked the dour-faced witch in the portrait, her voice husky, clutching an enormous handkerchief. Droma glared up at her.

            “It might not have to be…” she whispered to herself, taking another sip of water. Droma thought of Keats. She had nothing against him – he was a bit quiet, didn’t seem to laugh or joke around like some of the others. He had an impressive battle-scar, a horizontal slice across his cheeks, although she’d never asked how he’d got it. “Still waters run deep,” she muttered. She imagined _his_ name on the Ministry records, _his_ photograph in the papers, _him_ liaising with the Auror Office, contacting the Gringotts goblins, _him_ contacting Ollivander, asking about wand conditions. And he hadn't been at the Ministry for half as long as she had! Whatever she thought of Malfoy, as prisoners went, he was a big name. Surely whoever could claim responsibility for his conduct, let alone his reintegration, would be lauded, in the long run? But what would _Eleri_  think? Droma made a face.

Eleri was her closest friend these days; apart from the fact, of course, she’d been closeted up at home with some mystery illness for the last few weeks. Normally she was witty, riotously funny and as sharp as a Firebolt on a windless day. But Droma had a bad feeling she wouldn’t like the idea of her best friend helping a Death Eater get back on his broomstick. _Ex-Death Eater_ , Droma thought firmly, _right_? Her mind played back the trial notes. There had been thirty-three counts against him, thirty-three… “Oh for fuck’s sake!” she cried, leaping to her feet with frustration. The portrait gasped and blew her nose admonishingly in her direction. There was only one way to solve this problem, Droma thought. Her best friend, and a bottle of fine elf-wine.

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! It's quite a long one, but I hope that's a good thing rather than a bad! Getting v. close to some actual PHYSICAL Malfoy now. As always, please comment/kudos! <3 
> 
> [For the geeks: I made up the idea of a Potter Memorandum, basically one huge document that encompasses Harry's experience and eye witness account of the Second Wizarding War. As he's the only one who witnessed Lucius and Voldemort's chinwag during the Battle of Hogwarts, the info had to come from him somehow!]


	7. Eleri

As soon as she Apparated, Droma felt the drop in temperature. It wasn’t cold exactly, but fresh, and it made the witch smile as she tottered down the country lane, the evening just beginning to draw in. It always felt cooler here, and somehow more alive than the dusty streets of London – perhaps because here nature seemed to take more of a starring role. The sparrows chirped noisily from the hedgerows, and she heard the soft murmur of a stream, making its way along the fields to the valley below. Droma turned a corner and a grand manor house loomed into view, having been hidden by the foliage of a line of ancient oaks that stood beside it. She walked on towards it, and amongst the birdsong she heard the gentle slop of the bottle of wine in her bag. Droma hoped Eleri was up for a late one. She had heard surprisingly little from her since – well, not for ages.  There had been an occasional owl during the war, but El had been doing something desperately important in the diplomatic service and Droma had thought it best not to ask too many questions. And since the end of it all, El had been holed up at her parents’ place with some sort of exotic plant-based disease. Well, Droma just hoped she was well enough to help her out of this idiotic Malfoy situation. Kingsley was expecting her owl, and she only had until Monday morning to decide.

            A great smooth stone, propped up against the rocky walls of the estate, seemed to shine at her through the darkening mist as she reached the gravel drive. She read and smiled at the familiar words carved into it, flecked with moss and lichen -  Tŷ Fawr Ap Owen. She’d been here a handful of times – mostly during the summer holidays years ago, but the grand house never failed to impress her. She approached a gigantic oak door, wreathed in ivy, and knocked the cast iron ring against the wood three times. There was a slight silence, and then the great door swung noiselessly open and a portly House-elf with an immaculately clean white apron cried with delight, “Miss Jefferies!”

            “Bore da!” Droma sang back, stumbling slightly as the house-elf ushered her in to the hall. She couldn’t help but grin on entering – a roaring fire blazed away under a huge stone mantelpiece, and on the hall table there was a great vase full of sweet-smelling late-blooming roses.

            “Oh Miss, your Welsh is much appreciated,” the house-elf chirped, closing the door, “But –“

            “Oh, dragonballs,” she cursed, “What did I do wrong?” She unbuttoned her travelling cloak and handed it to the elf.

            “Well, Miss, it’s only a small point-“

            “Did I get the inflection wrong again? Sorry Gwen, I’ve had a few this evening,” Droma explained, as she took the wine from her bag, as well as a box of Peppermint Toads. The elf carefully slipped her cloak and bag onto a peg next to the fireplace and turned, her face made ruddy by the firelight.

            “Not at all miss! In fact, if you hadn’t have consumed any alcohol this evening I daresay your inflection would have been flawless. Gwen just noticed, Miss, that you wished her good morning, rather than good evening – if that was what you meant to wish me, Miss! Are you perhaps wearied by travel, and believe it to be morning? Because – “

            “No, Gwen, nothing like that,” Droma laughed. “I’m just terrible at languages! I’m sorry. I’ll have to ask Eleri to run through a few of the basics again with me. One day we’ll have a proper conversation, all in Welsh!” The house-elf beamed.

            “I would enjoy that very much, Miss Jefferies,” Gwen said, “Now, I believe you are here to see the young mistress?”

            “Yes, I am,” Droma replied, and she noticed Gwen’s grin had faded when she had mentioned her friend, “Why? Is she very ill? Can’t I see her?” The House-elf sighed and shook her head, her eyes cast down to the floor.

            “Oh yes, Miss, of course you can see her,” Gwen said, miserably, “But you see, Miss, the mistress is – not at all herself.” Droma blinked and tried to shake off some of her drunkenness.

            “What do you mean?”

            Gwen sighed again, fiddling with the seam of her apron.  “It is hard – for us to explain, Miss. The mistress is silent and sad. She refuses to eat most days. Gwen has tried cooking all of the mistress’ favourite dishes, but even Gwen’s welshcakes do not move her, Miss. We are all very upset by it. The mistress has been like this for a quite a long while, but we still do not know the cause, because the mistress will not speak. Perhaps – a friend – will cheer her.” Droma bit her lip and her insides squirmed with guilt.

            “I should have come sooner, Gwen, I’m sorry-“

            “You are here now,” the House-elf smiled, bravely, “I shall take you to her.”

            The House-elf took her down several passages, each brightly lit with magically flaming torches that grew brighter and dimmer as they approached and passed. Rich tapestries hung over many of the wooden-panelled walls, capturing ancient magical scenes which moved, just like magical photographs. Droma watched one, entranced, as a herd of pearlescent unicorn, threaded with silver, played and trotted on the banks of a glittering lake. Suddenly Gwen stopped at a door to the right and knocked softly on it. “Please enter, Miss,” she said, sadly, “I’m sure the mistress will be happy to see you.” Droma nodded and slowly pushed the door open.

            Inside, Eleri was curled up in an armchair, her legs drawn underneath her. A fire was crackling in her grate too, but the warmth seemed to be lost on her.          

“El, Jesus! I had no idea, I would have come sooner if I’d kno-“

 She looked up into Eleri’s face and stopped, shocked at how wasted her face looked, how unfocused her eyes seemed. Coming closer, it became clear that Eleri had lost a lot of weight. Her dressing gown hung off her arms and shoulders, and the bones of her jaw stuck out prominently, emphasising the hollows of her cheeks. Droma could see the blue threads of veins on her arms and neck, standing out unnaturally bold against her pale skin. But it was Eleri’s expression that was causing her the most anxiety. It was glazed, utterly without animation or soul. Reflected by the light of the fire Droma could see the paths of recent tears on her cheeks. She placed the box of Peppermint Toads on the sofa nearby. “Gwen said you weren’t eating, but I know at work you practically survive on these, so…?” She grinned weakly, and Eleri’s lips gave a tiny flutter. She breathed slowly.

            “Thanks.” Droma smiled at this response from her, and gestured to the wine.

            “I guess you might not be in the mood for this, but I sure could do with some. D’you mind?” Eleri turned back to the fire and shook her head. Droma quickly conjured a glass and poured herself a healthy dose of wine. There was silence for a few minutes as Droma desperately thought of what to say. She was less and less inclined to think Eleri was actually physically _ill_ ; what she thought she recognised in Eleri was a deep depression.

She’d seen it before.  During the last few months of the War, her brother Priam had lost his fiancée, Susanna. They had been due to marry a few months; they’d wanted to celebrate in the midst of all the horror. Like them, Susanna was a Muggle-born, and had, after finishing at Hogwarts, gone into the Ministry law office. She’d been negotiating a Muggle anti-discrimination bill when the Death Eaters had found her. They murdered her alongside her parents; Priam had been lucky to escape. He had never been the same since.

Distraction, Droma thought, she just needs to think of something else. Her eyes scanned the room. By the latticed window to the left there hung a magnificent tapestry, similar to the others she had seen, but she recognised this one – a great scarlet dragon gleamed in the foreground, bursts of fire occasionally bursting from his mighty snout. The whole tapestry was bordered with roses, red and white, which smoothly twisted and snared around each other.

“I remember this one,” Droma said, walking over to admire it, “Used to be in the lounge, didn’t it?” Eleri’s eyes had followed her as she moved, but she made no reply. “There was that time I was sleeping in there and I saw the dragon-fire in the middle of the night, and I screamed like a banshee and your Dad was none too pleased, remember?”

“Mmm,” Eleri murmured, non-committal. Good Goblins, Droma thought, this was like wading through treacle. She took another gulp of wine. Eleri’s eyes retreated from her and began again to gaze nowhere in particular, as if she was thinking of some old sad memory. Droma opened the Peppermint Toads and popped one in her mouth, leaving them encouragingly by the legs of Eleri’s chair. She settled herself cross-legged on the rug. She supposed she might as well come out with it; it might even distract El for a minute.

“I know I probably shouldn’t be boring and talk shop El,” she said, taking another gulp of wine, “But I didn’t know who else to talk to.” She paused, sighed and ploughed on, “I don’t know if you’ve seen the Prophet recently,” Eleri looked at her sharply and jerked her head from side to side, “Oh, right, well, they’ve started the Followers Trials – it’s what they’re calling all the Death Eater trials, and it was Malfoy’s about a week ago, and God, Eleri – they want _me_ to be his probation Officer.”

“What?” Her voice was hoarse through lack of use, her expression suddenly furious.

“Lucius Malfoy – they want-“ But Eleri had waved her hand to stop her, impatiently.

“I heard you. But you’re telling me he _got off_?” Her eyes were shining with tears.

“Yeah, I know, it’s –“

“I don’t believe it! That fucking spineless son-of-a-squib _got off_?! After torturing Muggle-borns and bending over backwards for Voldemort?! _How_ is _he_ not in Azkaban? Didn’t they at least consider a Kiss?” She had sat up in her chair, her voice cracking with anger and despair. Encouraged by this sudden, if emotional interest, Droma continued.

“I couldn’t believe it either. But there were mitigating circumstances – “ Eleri’s eyes flashed.

“Mitigating?!” she cried, leaping up from her chair and pacing wildly around the room, “ _Mitigating_?!” Droma stared at her; she’d had no idea that Eleri would take the news so badly. Obviously the whole situation was outrageous – that’s why Droma had come, to ask for advice – but she had not expected this level of fury.  “This worthless scrap of a human being who didn’t even have the honour or strength to stand up for his family, who wreaked damage and death and misery, who was _incapable_ of redeeming himself – and he’s, what? Sitting in his precious Manor, getting away with it all?” She was shouting at Droma now, her expression more terrifying due to the ashen paleness of her face.

“El, it isn’t my fault he got off, you know!” EIeri made a face, and continued to pace around the room. “I know he’s a complete prick. I think,” Droma paused, wondering if she was even allowed to go into details, “he’s agreed to give evidence against the rest of the Death Eaters, _that’s_ why they let him off. Shacklebolt told me. And,” she said, slowly, “they said he tried to call the Battle of Hogwarts off, tried to convince Voldemort to stop the carnage. So that went in his favour as well.” Eleri turned from her, and Droma saw her shoulders shake with sobs.

“El,” she said gently, rising, but Eleri put up her hand to stop her, her faced still turned away. After a few seconds, wiping  tears away on the sleeve of her dressing gown, she sat back in the chair, slightly more composed. Droma passed her the glass of wine and she saw Eleri smile weakly for a brief second before taking a large gulp and handing it back. “I knew I couldn’t have brought it all the way here for nothing,” Droma muttered, grinning. There was a pause, and she heard a piece of wood crack in the flames.

“Here’s the thing, El. _Obviously_ I don’t want to do this case – I mean, who would? He’s a racist thug. The idea of supervising him, _helping him_ – it just goes against everything, doesn’t it?” Eleri nodded, but Droma could tell that she was waiting for the ‘but’. “But,” she hesitated, speaking slowly, “Ang and Shacklebolt picked me out for this, specially. I’ve wanted to get my hands on something important for ages, and they’re thinking of getting Keats in to do it if I say no, I mean, Keats! He’s only been with us a few months…” She paused and took a breath. “Shacklebolt said that we need to treat everyone equally after the law, as that’s exactly the _opposite_ of what Thicknesse and the Death Eaters were trying to do. And if Malfoy’s going to give evidence against the rest of them…” Droma tossed it around her mind. “But he’s such a pathetic excuse for a wizard, isn’t he? And if the press found out, they'd crucify me. Urgh, El, I just don’t know. The Minister has given me til Monday morning to decide, otherwise he’ll reassign me. What should I do?”

Eleri looked at her firmly for a good few seconds, reached down for a  Peppermint Toad, then took a deep breath.

“Do it,” she said, croakily, “Do it for yourself. Do it so you can tell me how diminished he is, how pathetic, how weak. I want to know how the mighty have fallen. Be the sting in the lotion, Drom. Do your due, if you have to, but don’t make it easy for him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovely people! I know I say this every time, but Malfoy VERY SOON. Maybe *even* next chapter! :p


	8. The First Meeting

Droma sat at her desk, one hand supporting her head, the other clutching at a mug of very strong tea. She needed it. Her headache, no doubt exacerbated by all the wine she had drunk the night before, was receding, but she still felt uneasy.

            The cause of her ailment lay on the desk in front of her. It was a document, printed this morning, and her signature lay at the bottom, in her typical mint-green ink. She had been expecting the Non-Disclosure Agreement - that went without saying. It had, to her secret delight, had a departmental loophole - _‘sharing relevant information with colleagues_ within the designated department _is not encouraged, but is neither prohibited, granted you act discreetly and for the purposes of your role’_. So at least she could keep Eleri informed. Thinking of her friend, she looked down at the document and groaned. She wouldn’t be able to tell El about _that;_ she’d forgotten probationary legal documentation included that particular clause. ‘ _Therefore, it is a condition of your stewardship that you, to the best of your ability, protect the witch/wizard, LUCIUS MALFOY, from all harm to their physical and/or mental being.’_            

            “I recommend caution here, Droma,” the Minister had said to her that morning when she had agreed, eventually, to the task. “We will try and keep this particular arrangement as quiet as possible, of course, but we will not be able to do so indefinitely. The press will, eventually, hear of it one way or another, and we – the Ministry – and you, personally, will not be revered for it.” She’d looked up at him painfully from the documents set out on his desk. “There might be a bit of – rowdiness - but we’re prepared for it, Droma, there’s nothing to worry about. If and when you go abroad or in public after the news has broken, you will be offered extra security from the Auror office if you want it, no question. If Malfoy is with you, it will not be offered; it will be implemented.”

            He paused. “We do not expect any trouble from Malfoy himself,” he said, slowly. “His magical aptitude results suggest that he won’t be anywhere near duelling standard for some time, even with his wand restoration and any teaching or guidance he might employ to help him. You are also, of course, an exceptionally gifted and powerful witch, which I’m sure he will soon recognise. Even so,” and he lowered his voice dangerously, sitting back behind his desk and leaning in towards her, “there are many Death Eaters still abroad, more than we would care to mention publicly. It will not take long for them to realise that Malfoy has not been sent to Azkaban, nor for them to surmise why this might be the case. We have already showered Malfoy Manor with protective enchantments, but that is no reason to be complacent. I have already assigned three Aurors to patrol the place and maintain the charms on a regular basis – it will be your job to keep in touch with them and ensure there are no problems.” Droma put a hand to her forehead and massaged her temples. She still couldn’t quite believe that she’d agreed to all this.

            “I’m assuming you’d like regular reports, sir?” She asked, tentatively. Shacklebolt grinned.

            “Reasonably, yes. Every week; fortnight? Something like that. Once he starts coming in to give evidence I’ll expect more regular monitoring reports – I don’t have to remind you, Droma, of his value to us in all of this. If we lost him…” A shadow passed over the Minister’s face. “I’m relying on you, Droma.” She felt, despite her uneasiness, a bolt of pride shoot through her. “When will you meet the man?”

            “I – I’m not sure yet. When Mr Pardry spoke to me, he said he could squeeze in a visit to the Manor in the next couple of days.”

            “Excellent!” Kingsley clapped his hands together in a satisfied manner. “We can start to get things moving at last!” He sighed.  “The Great Repair. Oh, and you’ll need this,” he said, giving her a brown envelope. “Enclosed are the Manor’s Floo arrangements – we’ve been controlling all his grates ever since he defected. It will tell you which Ministry grates are connected and more importantly, _who_ has permission to travel there. We wouldn’t want any unauthorised colleagues turning up there, would we?” He gave Droma a knowing smile. “You may, if need be, dabble with the list, add or discard a few names. The only thing I would say, try and keep a few Aurors on the list. You’ll never know when they might come in useful...”

 

                                                                        ***

[A few days later]

The pendulum ticked slowly but relentlessly as they sat in silence in the great dark room. Gryff eyed his client narrowly, but there was more analysis than malice in his observations. Malfoy sat slightly hunched in a high-backed leather chair, his hands gripping the arms, his head, as ever, turned towards the empty fireplace. He was completely immobile, apart from his sunken eyes which were restless in their sockets, forever moving back and forth, as if replaying some nightmarish memory in his mind. A Firewhiskey glass, yellowing and now cracked beyond use, lay on the hearth; a new glass sat on a table by Malfoy’s chair. Beside it was a small glass phial, filled with a thick white potion. Gryff supposed it was medicine of some sort.

He sniffed and his attention was seized by an open ebony box of Dragontail cigars on another table to his left. A lifelong smoker, he was forever struggling to give up, and had managed a full three smokeless weeks – his best so far. It had been made apparent to him from the senior partner, Mr Witworth, that, best barrister in Britain or not, stinking of Dragontail smoke did not enamour himself to potential clients. Gryff considered offering a cigar to Malfoy, but the idea of having to sit there enduring the sweet taste he had just so manfully resisted stopped him in his tracks. He reached out purposefully and closed the lid of the box with a snap. Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. Gryff drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair with slight irritation. Where was this idiot witch?

As if in answer, a silvery blue ball of light darted into the room. Both men gazed at it as it grew in size, light quivering from it as it writhed and transformed, until it was suddenly, perfectly, a small bird of prey. It began to gently soar above their heads, circling the room. Gryff thought he almost felt – but it was impossible – the waft of its wings as it glided past him. Suddenly a voice came from the bird –

“On my way.” And then the animal vanished with a small pop.

“Oho,” chuckled Gryff, standing in anticipation of the witch’s arrival, “Perhaps not so much of an idiot as I thought!” Malfoy caught his eye, the first time he had done so since Gryff had arrived half an hour ago. His bloodshot grey eyes were full of guarded anxiety. The barrister had no inclination to sympathise in any way, however, and looked toward the great fireplace, which had started to glow acid green.

Within seconds, Droma spun into view and, despite the unfamiliar grate, landed with reasonable poise. Immediately, she saw Gryff and walked towards him, hand outstretched.

“Good morning, Mr Pardry,” she said, in a business-like manner.

“Morning,” he replied, “Excellent Patronus, by the way. Some sort of bird?” Droma was a little disarmed, and smiled in spite of her resolution to be boringly civil.

“Oh – yes, it’s a kestrel. Thank you.” She squinted in the darkness, trying to make out more of the room. “May I?” she gestured to the floor-length velvet curtains that hid a large window on the right hand side of the room. Without waiting for a reply, she walked over and pul led them back sharply, the brass curtain-rings clinking together as she did so.

Light flooded into the room. Malfoy flinched, and shut his eyes, turning his face from the window. His involuntary movement caused Droma to look over. She was instantly repulsed. His hair was lank and greasy, his body withdrawn. The grey velvet robes he wore were the same he had worn at trial, and Droma guessed, judging from the staleness in the air, that they hadn’t been changed since. Dirty glasses littered the floor around Malfoy’s chair in various states of uncleanliness and disrepair, and she could see parts of the floor that were skinned in dust. She would have to tell Eleri all about it. _This_ was the man who had been Voldemort’s closest lieutenant?

 “Well, this _is_ an unexpected pleasure,” drawled a voice to her right. She looked up and saw Malfoy’s portrait peering down at her, one hand on his hip, the other fiddling with the head of his cane. “I’m afraid _he_ isn’t up to much at the present time, but you only have to look at me to understand –“

“Oh shut up,” Gryff snapped. The portrait raised an eyebrow.

“Just as you wish,” he said, smirking, and he sank into the portrait-chair, his face disappearing behind a rather large copy of _Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_.

“He likes butting in,” Gryff explained, conjuring a wooden chair next to his own and gesturing towards it, “But I always find a half-hearted mutter of a Removal Charm within earshot works wonders. Something to bear in mind, anyway. Do sit,” he motioned again, and Droma acquiesced, glancing occasionally at Malfoy, her expression a mixture of repulsion and curiosity. There was a pause.  “You’ve got the papers, then, have you?” he asked her impatiently.

“Oh – yes, of course,” she replied, pulling a thick wad of documents from a leather satchel she had brought with her. “We’ve got a copy of the trial transcripts for your own perusal, a statement from the ‘Gamot about the sentence itself – mitigating circumstances and so forth –“ again, she glanced at Malfoy’s immobile figure, “and all the probation material, terms and conditions – there’s quite a lot. It will require a signature from both you and - your client – regarding the receipt of the paperwork and the probation agreement respectively.” Gryff grunted in assent. He was already reading, licking his thumb now and again to help separate the papers.

He peered at one document and let out a wheezy breath, looking in Malfoy’s direction. “Three years,” he said abruptly, with a slightly pained expression. “Three years’ probation, in the first instance. Well, perhaps it’s not too surprising considering…” Gryff trailed off. Looking over at Malfoy, Droma saw nothing to imply he had even heard. His face was turned away from both of them, towards the fireplace. She saw that his knuckles were white, his fingernails digging into the leather of the armchair.

“In normal cases, the sentence can be reduced if good behaviour is shown,” she said, deciding to address Gryff rather than his client.  The barrister looked up from the papers towards Malfoy, then to Droma, his eyebrow raised sceptically. He then thumbed through more papers, his small dark eyes scanning them, evidently looking for something in particular.

“Aha! Procurement of controlled wand in six months, with a free wand after another three, behaviour-dependent! That’s not too bad at all, Lucius,” he said, “Some wizards don’t get their wands back until after eighteen months.”

“Obviously your client will have to comply with all the regulations,” Droma said, sharply. “The Ministry will not hesitate to withdraw the wand for a longer period if the conditions are violated in any way.” Gryff made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Your client was given a Twig at the trial, I believe?”

The barrister looked up at his client, as though expecting a reaction, but none came. Gryff then nodded his head towards the hearth. The wand lay neglected on the flagstones, dangerously close to the coals. Droma took out her own wand and waved it. “Accio Twig,” she said, and it immediately flew towards her. “You do realise, Mr Pardry, that this wand is Ministry property?” Droma asked sharply, catching the Twig in her hand, “such careless conduct will not encourage us to restore your client’s wand.”

“Restore?! His true-wand was taken by Voldemort and destro-“Gryff began.

“If Mr Malfoy behaves acceptably within the probation period, he will be given an opportunity to choose another true-wand,” she said, haughtily. It felt rather nice to be informing _him_  for a change. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Malfoy turn to look at them. She paused and said, “I believe, as your client’s last wand was an heirloom, he has never actually been offered a _real_ true-wand – or been chosen by one, I should say.” There was a silence. Malfoy continued to look at them.

Droma put away her own wand and couldn’t help but feel how the Twig compared to it. It was – somehow – an awkward weight – too light to feel powerful, and it felt uncomfortable underneath her fingers. She realised that it was well named – it felt silly, stupid - like holding a stick. Droma fleetingly remembered playing duels with her brother, before she had got her Hogwarts letter, and how powerless she had felt clutching at a twig she had found in the woods when her brother had had a wand.

“Not a nice feeling, is it?” Gryff murmured. Droma started, looking up.

“Err – no, it’s not.” She hesitated, but then rose and walked over to the side-table next to Malfoy’s chair. Carefully she placed the Twig next to his glass. Droma noticed the phial, full of white liquid. “What’s this?”  She felt Malfoy’s eyes dart to her, but she turned her head to Gryff instead. He shrugged.

“No idea. Looks like medicine to me, but then again, I’m not an apothecary, am I?” he said, a little roughly.

Droma stepped back towards the barrister. “ _Is_ he unwell?” She asked in an undertone. For the first time, Gryff looked uncomfortable.

“Well...” he whispered, “just look at him. I knew him of old, and – well…” He gestured to the portrait of Malfoy, then to the reality. Droma rolled her eyes. This was all she needed. A criminal so pathetic he couldn’t even look after himself. For a second, she burned with fury at the thought of it. She crossed her arms, and then the phial caught her eye again. She frowned suspiciously, her anger dissipating.

“I’m not a qualified Healer, but I’m the Magi-Aider in the Department,” she said airily, moving to where Malfoy sat. Droma faced him. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked wary. “Can I take a pulse?” she asked, kneeling by the chair, trying to keep her voice brisk and professional. For a few seconds, Malfoy did not respond, but continued to look at her. Then he lifted his left hand from the arm of the chair, and rotated it, trembling, so that his palm faced upwards. Quickly, Droma folded back his sleeve, careful not to reveal any trace of the Dark Mark that she knew lay further up his forearm. Even though he knew it was coming, he flinched at her touch. Droma curled her fingers firmly around his wrist. She felt the strained intensity of the muscle, and how hard he was trying to suppress his hands from shaking. She could feel his eyes on her. She began to count, and stared at her watch, biting her lip in concentration. There was complete silence, apart from the ever-ticking pendulum from the grandfather clock and Malfoy’s irregular breathing, every exhale of which made his long hair shudder over his mouth. Eventually, Droma withdrew her hand from his wrist. She rose, frowning, and walked back to where Gryff sat, eyeing an ornate ebony box on the table nearest him.  

“He isn’t great,” she whispered to him. “Where are his servants? His family? Surely they could help out?” Gryff tore his eyes away from the box and sighed.

“The ones who weren’t scared off by Voldemort fled when he was defeated. As for the house-elves, Narcissa and Draco gave leave for the Ministry officials to give them all clothes when Lucius defected,” he murmured, “I believe wife and son are currently abroad.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll send an owl their way, for all the good it might do,” Droma said, thinking aloud, her brain whirring into action, “and I’ll ask Professor McGonagall if I can borrow a house-elf, for cooking and cleaning.” She gazed around the room, and saw the spider-webs, heavy and thick with dust, hanging limply from the ceiling. Droma picked up her satchel from beside the chair and re-buckled it.

“One thing I haven’t included in your paperwork,” she said, “is the reparation charge.” She paused. “The Department haven’t been able to access Gringotts yet, and until we do, we won’t be able to give you much of an idea.” She threaded her satchel over her shoulder. “I think that’s enough to be getting on with,” she said finally, taking a step towards the fireplace. Gryff stood, too, placing all the paperwork on top of the box he’d been gazing at so longingly a minute before. “I’ll be back in a week or so to collect the paperwork and go through the conditions in a bit more detail. Let me know if there are any problems.” She shook Gryff’s hand, and he nodded.

Droma turned towards the fireplace. The white phial sitting on Malfoy’s table caught her eye again, and she quickly reached out, as if to take it. But she suddenly remembered Eleri’s words to her a couple of nights before. Droma’s face hardened and she stepped forward instead, searching the various grand ornaments on the mantelpiece for one that held Floo Powder. She grabbed a handful from a gilt silver box, stepped into the grate and clearly said, “Ministry of Magic, Atrium!”

In a billow of green smoke, she had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this one! It's a bit longer, and there's actually some Lucius, so... :P Just to warn you, it will be suuuuuuuuuch a slow burn. Like, ridiculously slow. FLOBBERWORM SLOW. But hopefully this will only make it more delicious when it comes.... right? 
> 
> [For the geeks: a few things.   
> 'The Great Repair' is just a phrase I made up that sort of encompasses the clean-up the Ministry have to do after Voldemort's defeated.   
> Some wand stuff: The 'Twig', if I haven't already explained (mind like a sieve) is basically a run-of-the-mill crappy wand that the Ministry give out to ex-cons until they can prove they can behave themselves - also if you've lost your wand and you need a replacement until you get another better one. It's some sort of pine, short, and generally pretty crap. You can't do any non verbal spells with it, and it will massively struggle with anything more complicated that a simple charm. I also made up the phrase 'true-wand', as opposed to a wand you find and gain allegiance of or basically *any* other wand you have that didn't choose you at 11. I think I'm right in thinking that Lucius' one was over 1000 years old (?) and passed down the male Malfoy line (I got this from the wiki I think). Also, I thought that when he gets another true-wand (if he behaves himself ;)) it might be interesting if it was 'controlled', i.e., it still can't do dangerous/powerful magic. Certainly no Unforgivable Curses or anything like that. And then if he continues to be a good boy ;) then he can have the wand unrestricted, or free. ]
> 
> Loads of love! Thank you for reading, and for putting up with all my hairbrained HP ideas! <3


	9. The White Phial

There were two letters on her desk when Droma arrived. One, the smaller of the two, was plain apart from her name written in a small slightly child-like hand. The other had the Hogwarts seal pressed into it, and smelt of pine needles. She picked up the latter, broke the seal and read.

_Dear Ms. Jefferies,_

_Thank you for your letter dated the 8 th June. I am afraid that at the present time I must disappoint you in your request for a House-Elf from Hogwarts. As I am sure you know, they fought most valiantly for our cause during the Battle of Hogwarts, and sadly as a result, many died. We are therefore in the process of recruiting House-Elves ourselves, and cannot spare one to lend out, so to speak. I am sorry not to be able to help in this instance, but hope you can find an elf from elsewhere soon. _

_Yours sincerely_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Order of Merlin First Class_

_Headmistress of Hogwarts_

 

            Droma sighed. She had tried talking to the staff on Level Four about pinching a Ministry-owned elf; after all, it would be easier if she could keep it all in-house; but like McGonagall, they couldn’t help her. Droma wondered if they had known who she was, whether their refusals came from their knowing _why_ she required a House-elf so urgently. Shrugging the thought off, she opened the second letter.

_Dear Officer Jefferies,_

_Thank you for your letter. As you say, things are not easy between my father and us. But I am willing to see him for a short time if you think it would help. Could I request that you are present at home before I arrive? If it’s convenient, I shall come on Sunday. I think I’m right in saying that I can access the place through the Ministry Atrium grates? I await your owl to confirm._

_Draco Malfoy_

Droma immediately took two pieces of parchment from a drawer and for a few minutes, busied herself with writing. She then read both letters back, absent-mindedly tickling her ear with the feathery fronds of her quill.

            “That’ll do,” she muttered to herself, dropping the quill back in its ink-well. Sealing them both with an R&R Ministry stamp, Droma then turned them over and wrote one name on each – the first was Draco Malfoy, the second Eleri Owens. She placed them, one on top of the other, on the corner of her desk and smiled, a little smug.

            This Malfoy lark wasn’t so bad, she thought. Draco can have a nice chat with him, I’ll get an elf from somewhere to do the housework, and he’ll just sit in his armchair til the Nifflers come home. There was the reparation charge to chase up, of course, but maybe she could just talk to Gryff Pardry about that, let him break the news, when it came. Droma thought of Malfoy, alone in that dark, dusty airless room, his eyes darting at every sudden movement, his hands trembling as they gripped the arms of the chair he never seemed to move from, and she smirked. She was his probationary officer, fine; but she didn’t have to _like_ him. As long as she was professional. There was a soft knock at the door.

            “Oh hi Keats,” Droma said, smiling broadly, “what can I do you for?” Keats entered, smiled briefly and held out his hand. In it was a small brown envelope.

            “I think you misplaced this, Drom,” he said, a slight blush on his scarred cheeks. She took it and unsealed it; inside was the Floo information for Malfoy Manor.

            “Oh shitting Salazar!” she cried, her curse slightly stifled by her hand covering her mouth in shock. “Thanks Keats! Where did you find it?”

            “Oh – just outside your office, that’s all.” .

            “I must have dropped it coming in! Well we can all thank Dumbledore it wasn’t anywhere more public. I owe you one, Keats. Next time we’re at the Beating Bludger I’ll get you a drink.” Keats grinned, more genuinely than before.

            “Thanks!” he said brightly.

            “Oh, and Keats?” She gestured to the letters. “You’re not sending any post this morning are you?”

            “Oh yeah, I was just on my way down there – I’ll send them off for you,” he said, almost eagerly, “no problem.” And he took them from her desk and withdrew from the room. Droma smiled as he left, but after the door had closed her face crumpled into an anxious frown. How could she be so stupid? Leaving highly confidential material just lying around the floor? Shacklebolt would have had her robes for ribbons if he knew. Droma surveyed the letter unfolded in front of her, from Draco Malfoy, eyeing it quizzically. Why did he want her present before he arrived? Didn’t he want to be alone, have some private conversation with his father? Draco didn’t sound very enthusiastic, anyway, Droma thought, and she didn’t blame him. Suddenly she checked herself and bit her lip.

            A few days ago she had checked in the vast Ministry library, although subconsciously she knew she didn’t need to. There it had been, illustrated just as she had seen it, a tiny phial with an unctuous white liquid inside.

_‘Essence of Hemlock. Taken from the hemlock plant_ conium maculatum, _it is one of the simplest, oldest and most lethal of poisons. The poison can be digested in its natural raw form, but it takes on a more dangerous character if infused. In Medieval Britain, when capital punishment was still practiced by the Wizengamot, the drinking of a hemlock infusion was one of the many colourful ways in which one could be executed, especially if the criminal was of noble birth or of pure magical blood. Although lethal, it acts on the body quickly and bloodlessly, gradually slowing the heartbeat and causing the body to go rigid. Therefore, it was seen as a more dignified death compared to more bloody or drawn-out execution techniques. It is one of the only poisons known to wizardkind not to have an antidote. Because of this, Essence of Hemlock is normally found in small bottles or phials.’_

She had closed the large leather tome with a snap, warranting a herald of shushing from the other readers, and Droma quickly rushed back to her office, her head a mixture of guilt and contempt. She sat down, her mind whirring, remembering with shame the clause in the Probation Agreement – _,’it is a condition of your stewardship that you, to the best of your ability, protect the ~~witch~~ /wizard, LUCIUS MALFOY, from all harm to their physical and/or mental being.’_ Droma groaned. How long had she lasted? A matter of hours from signature to failure. She had been pretty sure it was hemlock when she first clapped eyes on it. The description fitted perfectly, and something about her knowledge of the Malfoys told her that they were exactly the kind of wizards who would think hemlock would give them more of a noble death.

            Droma knew she should have taken it when she left the Manor, but in that moment all she had thought about was Eleri, and how miserable and furious she had been. Droma looked across at the calendar hanging up on her wall – it had only been nine days since she had watched, open-mouthed, at Malfoy leaving court, and had been so indignant at the idea of helping him that she’d been kicked up to Shacklebolt as a matter of urgency. Now she was up to her neck. Part of her was still furious, and quite indifferent about the fact she had just allowed a criminal to keep a highly dangerous and illegal poison in his immediate radius. But she had signed the parchment, _and_ , her conscience screamed at her, _do you really want to be indirectly responsible for someone’s death?_ After all, she thought, if it was just lying around it was a danger to anyone, not just Malfoy. Droma decided that this was a far better reason to retrieve it than anything else.

            The grate in her office had just been added to the Floo list, connected to the one in the sitting room of Malfoy Manor, although only one-way; there was no chance Malfoy was having access to her office. She grabbed a handful of Floo powder from a little glass pot on her mantelshelf, squashed herself into the grate, and threw it down around her.

            “Malfoy Manor,” she said, clearly. Her body was whipped up in a gust of green cloud and she felt the burn of the grates that were lit as within seconds she landed under the burgeoning black marble mantelpiece in that dark dusty room.

            He’d shut the curtains again. She peered towards where his leather wing-backed chair sat, turned towards her, and her heart rose – he was not there. Droma peered through the gloom at the opposite wall and her heart did another skip – that irritating portrait wasn’t there either, just a newspaper folded on the portrait-chair. Luck was with her. Immediately she took out her wand and whispered, “Muffliato”. That would give her more time.”Lumos.” She cast her wand over the chair, the table – but there was nothing there. It had gone.

            She cursed under her breath as she carefully put her wand, still illuminated, on the side-table. Sitting there was a small iron key, but she ignored it, and felt down the sides of the chair, the warm leather squashing up against her fingers. “What am I doing?” she whispered, putting a hand to her forehead. “Accio Hemlock!”  

            There was a strange scraping sound, as if a mouse was clawing against a floorboard. It was coming from the wall to her left, where sat a fat mahogany bureau, inlaid with jade. Hoping that her muffling charm was a still up to scratch, she crept towards the bureau and tapped it gently with her wand. “Alohomora,” she whispered. There was a creak as the front of the desk fell forward, and it caused her to jump so violently she almost missed the tiny phial of hemlock sail through the air towards her. “Gotcha!” she cried, and quickly she pocketed it, folded the desk back up and turned to make her escape.

            “Officer-“  She whipped round, her wand drawn.

            “Now, now, we don’t want a scene,” drawled the portrait Malfoy, striding back into his frame. Droma threw him a dirty look and then realised with a nasty shock that the real Lucius Malfoy was standing just below him. He looked more haggard on his feet than hunched into a chair, his robes dragging on the floor, almost as if he had shrunk. They stared at each other. Droma knew suddenly that she had to speak first. 

            “I came – to get this,” and she raised it in her hand. Recognising the phial, Malfoy’s eyes widened and he took a step forward, a little uneasily. “You shouldn’t have had it.” He cleared his throat.

            “Medicine – it’s”

            “It is _not_  medicine,” she said, scoffing. Droma hesitated, and took a step towards him. “Do you think you can take me for a fool?” His mouth opened a little, taken aback. “I hope there isn’t anything else hidden away. Even possessing such a lethal drug could set your wand restoration back by months.” She raised her eyebrow. “The Wizengamot ruled that you were too valuable for internment, let alone a dignified death; and it’s my job to keep you alive. I don’t care if you’re broken, I don’t care if you’re tired, I don’t care if you hate it; you have to stay alive.” She stopped and caught her breath. Malfoy looked away from her, and she suddenly turned on her heel and was soon spinning her way back to her own grate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for staying with me, fellow Luciusophiles! Give me kudos/comments/general love and affection!


	10. A Visit from Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies! I haven't posted for yonks but here's a super super long one to make up for it! Slooooooow burrrrnnnnnnnnnn is very slowly going down, promise! :p

Droma paced the room. It was Sunday, and Draco Malfoy was expected in the sitting room of Malfoy Manor any minute. She had not spoken a word to Malfoy senior since her arrival and saw no reason to do so. Droma was hoping that a visit from his son would kick some life into him, perhaps get him to talk - _then_  she could try and sort out the rest of the probationary procedures. She looked over at Malfoy, pale as ever, squinting in the sunlight, every few seconds glancing over at the grandfather clock. He had at least changed his robes, she thought, although these, of dark red silk, looked just as oversized as the other robes she had seen him in. Malfoy had also clearly tried to shave himself, with little success. Patches of dark stubble lay in rough patches over his cheeks, and there were a few bloody marks on his throat, where he had caught himself with the blade.  She wondered when he had last seen his son. Perhaps after the Battle of Hogwarts, sitting in the Great Hall, looking wasted and lost. The portrait-Malfoy clicked his tongue impatiently. He was lounging in his armchair, legs crossed, hands clasped in his lap, staring intently at the fireplace.

There was a roar of flame and Draco Malfoy appeared. He too blinked in the blaze of sunlight for a few seconds before recognising his father. Lucius stood, awkwardly, as if unsure how to proceed, but Draco held out his hand.

            “Draco,” Lucius said, hoarsely, taking his son’s hand in his own. The strangled sound of his voice made Droma’s skin crawl.

            “Father,” Draco said, his face wary. Droma took a step towards them and Draco looked over at her, and to her surprise, smiled. “Andromache Jefferies, isn’t it?” He shook her hand. Lucius frowned, looking from her to his son with a look of surprise and caution. “Sorry, I should probably say Officer, shouldn’t I? I remember you from Hogwarts.” Droma made a face, trying to remember how they could have possibly met – she was six years older than him. “You were in your last year when I started, but I remember you from the Quidditch pitch – and by reputation, of course. Droma Jefferies, the Killer Keeper.” Droma had to suppress a smile, she had forgotten that stupid nickname. “I saw you save some devilish Quaffles, even if Gryffindor did win the House Cup that year. Shame that Flint had to take over really, but there we are.” He paused. “And weren’t you some Potions genius, too? I remember Snape mentioning your NEWT score once or twice.” Droma felt her face burn, and suddenly Draco seemed to remember where he was and shut his mouth.

            “Well, I’m sure you’d welcome some private time with each other,” she said, speaking quickly, moving towards the door. “I’ll wait, shall I? I’ve got a few things to go through with your father afterwards. I need a word with one of the Aurors anyway, might as well do it now. How long will you need?” Draco looked at his father, his face suddenly stony.

            “Ten minutes?”

            “Ten minutes?” Droma repeated, and she couldn’t help but notice Lucius turn away, his eyes downcast. “Err – yeah, ok.” And nodding at Draco, whose expression, though angry, was tinged with pink, she opened the door and closed it firmly behind her, making her way through the passage to the grounds outside.

                                                                                                                       ***

Droma glanced at her watch as she headed back into the Manor; just over ten minutes had gone. She walked back to the sitting room door and knocked, softly. Draco was talking.

            “-it’s best for all of us if we stay apart. I know it’s not easy – it’s not easy for us either you know, and mother, well – come in!”

            Droma eased the door open. The curtains were shut, the fire was lit, and Draco was sitting in a chair of his own, close to his father’s. They were leaning in towards each other, but neither of them looked comfortable. As she walked in, Draco stood. Lucius looked up at him as he did so, as if surprised by his son’s movement.

            “Don’t go so soon, Draco-“ he began, quietly.

            “I can’t stay. I told you. Mother wants me back,” Draco said, firmly, refusing to look at him. He vanished his chair with his wand and approached Droma. “Thank you for doing all this. I know it’s – well, not easy.”

            “Don’t forget they’re paying me,” she said. He smiled ruefully.

            “Yes. Of course.” He turned his head slightly to indicate his father behind him, who was gazing steadily at the pair of them. “It might seem cruel,” he whispered in an undertone, “but there’s nothing much I can do. I can’t bear being here, and Mother needs me more than he does. We – I – there’s still a lot of…“ He grimaced. “With time, perhaps, I can come again, and maybe even Mother…” he trailed off and sighed. Then, collecting himself, Draco nodded at Droma, and clapped his father awkwardly on the shoulder, whispering a few words in his ear that Droma couldn’t catch. Then he quelled the fire with a wave of his wand, took some Floo powder from his pocket and, his back to them, spun back to the Ministry.

            There was a silence. Droma stared into the grate, hoping that if she continued to do so, nothing else would happen. She suddenly felt apprehensive. She thought of Eleri, of Shacklebolt, of everything she had witnessed those past few months, and she steeled herself. Things have to be done, she thought. But before she could speak, Malfoy had.

            “I didn’t know – Draco mentioned - you were in Slytherin,” he said, in a hoarse voice. She turned to look at him. His eyes were cautious, almost as if he was afraid of her reply. Droma sighed, and conjured a chair in the place of the one Draco had just vanished.

            “Does it make any difference?” she said, her eyebrow raised at him, her eyes narrowed. His face darkened and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

            “Not anymore, I _suppose_ ,” he said, shortly.

            “But it _does_  help,” drawled the portrait-Malfoy from his frame, his eyes visible over the top of a Daily Prophet dated some seventeen years before. Droma rolled her eyes. “Muffliato…Silencio,” she said, aiming at the wand at the portrait. Before the figure could protest, a pair of fluffy green earmuffs had snapped themselves over his ears, and he was silenced. Droma entertained herself for a few seconds watching him trying to pull them off in silent fury, without any success.

            “Right, well, that’s something,” she said brightly, turning back to the real Malfoy, who didn’t look half as amused. “As I recall,” she continued, “Voldemort was also in Slytherin, and in the end you weren’t the fondest of chums, am I right?”

            “Don’t – say his name!” he cried, his voice strangled with the strain.

            “He’s _dead_ , Mr Malfoy.” Droma said, darkly. She watched curiously as his face seemed to contort with fear and despair.  

            “I have – dreams.” She surveyed him as his gaze faltered, and she sighed, pulling out from her bag a sheaf of parchment.

            “Well,” she said briskly, “perhaps I can do something about that.” She took out a self-inking quill (she had a bad habit of breaking ink-pots in her bag, rendering her angry and her paperwork emerald) and scratched down on a blank piece of parchment, _Malfoy - Dreamless sleep potion_.

            “The – ah - hemlock – did you –“

            “I destroyed it,” Droma said, firmly. She looked up at him and suddenly said, quieter, “Were you really going to use it?” He set his jaw and smirked, looking ahead of him.

            “I’m a coward,” he said. “I couldn’t even…” There was something akin to hatred in his voice. Droma’s shoulders tensed and she shifted in her chair. She didn’t want to hear this. He blinked and looked at her. “Did you tell -?”

            “No,” Droma said, “I haven’t told anyone at the Ministry about it.” He nodded. She was about to reaffirm the spiel to him, that he’d technically violated his probationary conditions already, but decided suddenly not to. Perhaps she could use this confidence to her advantage, maybe use it as leverage in the future… Such a fact might come in useful.    

            “I suppose you feel rather –“ his tongue ran over his bottom lip, as if thinking of the correct phrase, “like you’ve been given the short straw.” He glanced a look at her but Droma’s face was impassive.

            “I’m just doing my job, Mr Malfoy,” she replied, tonelessly. There was a whirring noise from the grandfather clock and then the bell inside began to toll for midday. She waited patiently for the peals to stop, running the future conversation through her head. “I hope you enjoyed seeing Draco, and you had – an effective conversation,” she paused as she saw him sneer, an eyebrow raised.

            “ _Effective conversation.._?” But the sneer on his face didn’t fool her. Droma had seen herself how reluctant Draco had seemed, and the pain on his father’s face when he had stood up to leave. There was a pause and Malfoy cleared his throat. “He – Draco – he said you had asked for him to come.”

            “Yes,” she said, shortly. She felt his eyes on her, looking for what – a reaction? Droma looked more intently at the parchment balanced on her knee.

            “You were a Prefect.” Droma resisted the urge to rebuke him – it was none of his business, anyway – and instead flipped the parchment over, as if in deep concentration.

            “Mmm.”

            “So was I,” and she heard the leather of his chair squeak as he leaned forward towards her, “a long time ago.” Droma returned his gaze for a few seconds, her eyes carrying the anger that her voice could not dare muster. She recoiled at the idea that he was trying to forge some connection between them, that they were in any way alike. Droma remembered quite suddenly, the oak-wood boards which hung in the Slytherin common room, the letters glinting in the glow of the lamps, and that her name had been two boards across from his own; she had remembered thinking it was unnerving, even then. With an effort, she tried to wipe the memory from her mind.

 “Right,” she said, suddenly business-like, gesturing to her papers on her lap, “there are a few probationary conditions that I still need to go through with you.” As soon as she had started speaking, he had withdrawn and his head was again turned towards the flames of the fire. Droma resisted the temptation to roll her eyes, and could just imagine Eleri’s reaction at his inability to focus at the matter in hand. “First things first – this place,” she gestured to the room. “If this is still where you’d prefer to reside, that’s acceptable to the Ministry. But I think it’s best if it’s a little more habitable.” Malfoy turned his head slightly towards her, but she could not see his expression. “I think I’ll be able to secure a House-elf for you from a colleague of mine,” she continued, “I’m just waiting for confirmation. Once they’re settled here, the place’ll look a bit better – and,” she hesitated, sweeping her eyes from the empty Firewhiskey decanter on the table to his baggy robes, “I daresay they’ll be happy to cook too.” Droma paused, unwilling to ask lest he took it as a mark of concern. “When did you last – eat?” Malfoy looked at her blankly, and blinked. “Well, once I’ve got confirmation I’ll let you know when the elf is planning to arrive,” she said quickly.

            “Talking of which,” Droma continued, looking at her watch. She took out her wand and waved it, and the curtains sprang apart to their left. Droma walked over and opened one of the windows. “There’ll be an owl coming any minute. It’s been given special protection by the Magical Creatures people, it’s the only animal that will be able to circumvent the enchantments protecting the Manor. Here we are,” she said smiling, and there was a sound of beating wings before a handsome tawny owl flapped down to the sill. Around her right talon was a golden ring with an ‘M’ engraved into it. Droma gestured for Malfoy to rise, and he reluctantly did so. He walked towards the window, squinting in the light. Droma looked down at the bird, which returned her gaze, a little haughtily. “She should respond to your call, if you want to send me or Gryff a message. Oh, and her name is Artemisia.” The owl hooted. “Seems like she’s pretty clever, although the handler on Level Four told me she’s got a bit of an attitude problem.” Droma tried very hard to suppress a smile and addressed the owl. “If Mr Malfoy calls for you, come quickly, won’t you? You know where I’ll be, or Gryff Pardry.” The owl blinked at her, hooted softly and took off again. Droma left the window ajar, but shut the curtains.

            “Thank you,” Malfoy whispered from behind her, and she almost jumped, “I - dislike the light.”

            “I wouldn’t get used to it, Mr Malfoy,” Droma retorted, moving away from him and resuming her seat, “I doubt the House-elf will enjoy keeping everything in the dark.” She looked closely at his face, and saw that his skin was almost grey, with dark shadows under his eyes. “When you eventually start giving evidence, the Ministry will want you looking a little more – presentable. A little sunlight, perhaps fresh air – will help with that. Now,” she continued, briskly, “going back to the problem of communication.” Malfoy also sat back in his chair, but turned to face her, listening. “If you need to contact me urgently – there’s something wrong, or an owl won’t do, you can use this.” She delved into her pocket and brought out a Galleon. Malfoy frowned. “It’s a rather clever device. Draco is familiar with it, I think… You won’t be able to use it in the same way to begin with – your Twig isn’t strong enough –“ she saw a flicker of anger pass over his face, “but – simply rotate it in your hand four times, like so, and this one,” she revealed a second Galleon, “should burn. I’ll keep this one on me, so I should always be contactable if you need me.” Before Malfoy could respond, she took out her wand and pointed it at the first coin.

            “ _Adharere Lucii…Ure Res Muggletum_.” The Galleon immediately jumped into the air as if on a string and delved into the right pocket of Malfoy’s robes. He flinched and immediately took it out. She smiled in a satisfied manner and waved her wand a second time, pointing at her own Galleon. “ _Alium sensit_ ,” she said, and she pocketed it.

            “You can take it out your pocket, but I wouldn’t try to remove it from your person,” she said, warningly, and he looked at her, his lips thin with anger. “Because I’ll know if you do. The charms controlling it are complex. It’ll also burn rather nastily if it’s meddled with in any way, or,” she paused, “if you travel into a particularly Muggle area.” Rage seemed to leave his face, but a frown remained. “Technically, you’re free to travel, with my permission,” she went on, leafing through her notes, “and apart from your – diminished, err –“

            “Skills?” he suggested, smoothly. She looked up at him and felt the colour rise in her cheeks.

            “Yes,” she said quickly, “apart from your diminished skills, there’s nothing to stop you going abroad. However, it is certainly the opinion of the Ministry that until public opinion has cooled off sufficiently, you should have supervision when you travel, either from me or from one of the Aurors. Remember,” she said, almost wearily, seeing his lip curl, “that these conditions are in place just as much for your protection as they are for a punishment.” She hesitated and lowered her voice. “Surely it won’t have escaped the notice of those still at large that you are walking free, that you are co-operating with the Ministry-“

            “They don’t know anything,” he whispered quickly, although his eyes did not make contact with hers.

            “Are you _quite_  sure of that?” She asked, eyeing him narrowly. Malfoy slowly raised his glance to her face and Droma could see the naked fear that apparently still haunted him in his dreams. For a second, she felt a surge of pity for him, and her face softened. “If you do everything that we have agreed, there shouldn’t be anything to fear. As I said, we are here partly to protect you.” She paused. “But you’re going to have to accept the fact that some of your old friends will find out about your circumstances sooner or later, if they don’t already. The Ministry have no particular desire to keep your co-operation quiet and the press will pounce on it once it gets out.” Malfoy turned his head towards the fire, his grip tightening on the arms of his chair. Droma thought of Rita Skeeter and shivered. “I need to talk to the Wizengamot about submitting your evidence, actually.” She scribbled something else onto her parchment and then looked up. “I suppose you’d rather you didn’t have to go in and submit your evidence at the Ministry?” Malfoy answered her with a look. “Yes, I thought so. I think, if I talk to the right people, I might be able to wrangle them coming here for now, but once the Trials are in full swing and you’re –“

            “More up to it?” Malfoy conjectured, his face in profile, his ugly sneer half concealed from her.

            “Yes,” she continued, “well, the Ministry will expect you to make the effort and take the risk to come in.” She shrugged. “It makes them look good, doesn’t it? It shows that they’re in control.” Droma saw his head nod almost imperceptibly. A log on the fire split in two, showering the hearth with sparks. Droma noticed that the robes he was wearing, although clean and smart, were baggy and fraying at the cuffs. She’d have to sort out some new robes for him if he didn’t have anything suitable upstairs, especially if visits to the Ministry became a regular occurrence. She’d get the House-elf to check when they arrived. Scribbling this down, she checked the rest of her papers. The grandfather clock struck the half-hour. Droma glanced at Malfoy and saw that he had already withdrawn from the conversation – his hands gripped the chair, his eyes stared steadily into the flames, his face sunken and afraid. With a sudden movement she stood, and stuffed the documentation back into her satchel.

            “I think that’s enough for now,” Droma said, buckling the bag and threading it onto her shoulder. “Gryff’s coming sometime soon to prepare the probation signatures and to go through your reparation payment. As I said, the House-elf will probably be here in a day or two.” He gave no response and she twitched with irritation. “Oh, and another thing, Malfoy,” she said, more brusquely, “about the Galleons. You’ll feel yours burn if I’ve sent you a message; you’ll be able to read it around the edge, but you won’t be able to respond.” She paused, waiting for a reply but once again none came. “Mr Malfoy?” He turned his head as she dissipated the flames in front of them with a wave of her wand. “Do you understand?” He nodded, tensing his jaw as he did so.

            “Well that’s the main thing,” she said, smiling, as she felt the warmth of the fire in the grate and knew she’d soon be free of the gloom that seemed to pervade Malfoy Manor.  

 

 

 


End file.
